


Victoria

by whatsherface



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst without plot, Divine Cassandra Pentaghast, F/M, Ficlet, Not Safe For Feelings, Post-Canon, Pre-Tresspasser, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 14:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14546247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsherface/pseuds/whatsherface
Summary: Cassandra reigns over the Chantry as Divine, but the Inquisitor has a hard time letting go.An angsty, angsty one-shot (to the heart).A Clean Burn what-if.





	Victoria

Owain tilted his head at the armed sentries that stood watch by her door. 

“Are they always in here?”

“They are here for my protection.”

He arched a brow and smirked, an increasingly rare sight these days. “You? Protection?”

Divine Victoria rolled her eyes. “The clerics insist.”

He paused and pitched his voice just for her. “Even with me?” 

She sighed, and against her better judgement, she relented. 

He walked out the glass-paned doors to the balcony as she dismissed her guards. They left reluctantly, and only after she flashed a glimpse of the sword strapped to her hip beneath her vestments. As the door closed behind them, she pulled the tall gilded hat from her head and set it on her desk, scratching her fingers through her hair. It always itched underneath. 

She went out to join him and found him standing by the railing, looking out over the green cathedral gardens. She stood beside him, resting her hands next to his on the cool stone. Without taking his eyes from the trees, he lifted a hand and placed it gently over hers, curling into the spaces between her fingers, weaving them tight. His hand was warm. It always was. 

She didn’t stop him. They stood like that for a while. A minute, maybe two. 

“Owain…” she began, as the moment stretched on. They shouldn’t go down this road. It was worse, every time. 

He inhaled sharply, a ragged shudder of a thing. Then he released her hand and pulled away, turning to look at her with storm-grey eyes brimming with pain laid bare. Whatever masks he wore as the Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, the face and the titles that had carried him here, he let them slip now, leaving only the man. The man she had loved and still did, but whom she had left in order to do the Maker’s will. 

He looked diminished since the last time she had seen him, though that was barely two months prior. His hair had grown long, and the dark beard that covered his sharp jaw was almost unruly. To her, he was handsome as ever, but there were shadows under his eyes and a slump to his shoulders. She told herself it had nothing to do with her. 

His voice was rough and low, just above a whisper when he spoke. “I came to say goodbye.” 

She frowned. “What?”

“You won’t see me for a while,” he explained, shifting his weight and casting his eyes at his feet. “I won’t be coming to Val Royeaux. To the Chantry, I mean.”

“Where--”

“I haven’t decided fully,” he cut in, his words tripping over themselves, “but likely a tour of the Inquisition outposts. Spend some time in the Approach, check on our camps in the Wastes, circle back to the Dales before heading back to Ferelden. I’ll be all over, really.”

Her brow only knit further. “Is there some need? Some emergency? You have already closed all the rifts...”

“No no, I just… miss it, that’s all. Getting my hands dirty, doing real work. It could be good, I think.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do I not believe you?”

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and huffed the saddest laugh she had ever heard. Her reflection swam in his eyes, and his jaw flexed as he chewed his lip between his teeth. He heaved a great sigh before speaking. 

“Fuck, I miss you.”

“Owain, don’t...” she warned.

“Maker, Cass.” He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyelids. “I thought I could do this, but I can’t.” 

He threw his hands in the air and made a wordless sound of frustration. Then he glanced at her again and paced to the end of the narrow balcony. She watched and swallowed the lump in her throat, not knowing what to say. Why did words have to fail her now?

He made his way back to her, tapping his fist on the railing with each step. “I can’t,” he went on. “I’m not this man. I’m not... _good_ enough. This kind of sacrifice, it... It kills me. To come here and see you, to be so close and not be able to touch you. You have no idea.”

“I have some idea,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

He stopped pacing and sighed. “He’s your Maker, not mine.”

She looked away and dug her fingers into her arms, trying to master the mix of anger and pity and hurt swirling in her heart. This called for a measure of patience that had never come easy for her. 

“Think of all the good we have done,” she said gently, trying to encourage, not provoke. “We are still rebuilding, but there is peace. True peace. Mages and Templars work together for the good of all Thedas. The Chantry is a source of hope once again.”

“I know,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know. I just… Hah. Is it terrible if I wish we were still at war, just so we could be together?”

She dropped her arms and looked at him sadly. She had to suggest it, even if it pained her to do so. “I have changed the Chantry law. Mages can marry and have families. You could find someone else and--”

He looked stricken at her words, and then angry, twisting his face in a scowl. “Don’t insult me,” he snapped.

She pressed her lips in a flat line. Well. That wasn’t really what she wanted, either. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, checking himself a beat later. He shook his head again. “I didn’t come here to argue. I didn’t mean to start this again.”

He drew near and stretched a hand to her face, brushing the hair from her forehead with feather-light fingers. He took a deep breath and gave her a wistful smile. 

“I just wanted you to know.”

As she searched his eyes and lost herself in their depths, some part of her wished desperately for him to take her in his arms, to wrap her close, to sweep her up and away and _kiss_ her, like he had done so many times before. She could see it in her mind, practically taste it on her tongue. But that was a memory now. A different life, a past life.

Cassandra’s life.

So instead, she simply smiled and touched her hand to his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into it. 

“I will always love you,” she whispered.

He curved his mouth again and roved his eyes over her face, like he was committing her to memory. Then he took her hand in his and pressed his lips to her palm. 

“Goodbye,” he said, before turning to head for the door. She wasn’t sure what compelled her to jog a few steps after him, following him out through her office and into the hallway. She cursed her robes for slowing her down. But he didn’t look back. 

Whatever he might say, the Inquisitor was a good man, she thought, as his steps echoed off the marble halls of the Grand Cathedral, carrying him ever farther away from her. She did not regret her decision to seek the Sunburst Throne. She had done so much good and had plans for so much more. 

Then why did she feel like she had broken something precious?

Divine Victoria returned to her room and shut the door. Then she bent on her knees to pray.

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, I'm the worst.
> 
> Thanks for ~~reading~~ suffering with me.  <3


End file.
